


There are heroes here

by Lord_SC



Series: Of Bastards and Broken Things [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Moral Dilemmas, POV Theon Greyjoy, Soup, Theon Greyjoy Needs a Hug, Theon Greyjoy-centric, Theonsa-Centric, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21968362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_SC/pseuds/Lord_SC
Summary: "Being a hero isn’t always about standing in the front line even when it's too late. Sometimes, it is also about being brave enough to give up in order to live an other day."
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Series: Of Bastards and Broken Things [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1317905
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	There are heroes here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Attaining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attaining/gifts).



> I participated in the Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire Secret Santa event this year, and this is my gift for the lovely Kat (Attaining). I hope you will enjoy it!  
> It's hurt/comfort, as you requested. I usually write... Well... Hurt/hurt/a bit more hurt (because I have far more experience with this than comfort), so I'm not sure how the "comfort" part turned out, and since I panicked about it, I'm not even sure if I managed to write enough hurt. (Yes, I'm not sure whether I associated THEON GREYJOY with enough hurt, I'm that much of a screw-up.)  
> To be fair with myself, my sense of pain and joy is completely messed-up so it's not entirely my fault if the balance is off. As a warning, I once wrote a story where the main character was reflecting on his life only to remind himself how much it was in shambles, through how much pain he had been and still was in, and how little hope he had about his future. To which one of my close friends said that, for one of my stories, it was actually really hopeful because "here's the thing: the character isn't dead! Knowing you, you could have made him kill himself a dozen times in this story with more imagination than Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie put together, but you didn't! And that's very hopeful..." I'm still not sure whether it was an insult disguised as a compliment or a compliment disguised as an insult. Although it's my most depressed friend who said that, so I guess it's not all my fault...  
> However, once, I was telling another of my friends about another of my texts, and when she stared at me with despair and blurted out "Are all your stories so depressing?!"... I haven't had the guts to tell her it was one of my HAPPY ones.  
> So, long story short, I'm not the cheerfullest person on Earth so you may want to lower your happiness standards. Although as a fan of Theon, I assume you already did, so ultimately, all this speech may have been useless and Lord I chat too much.  
> Happy reading!

It seems odd that, on what will without a doubt be the last evening of his life, he has never been happier.  
It seems less odd when taking into account he is spending it with Sansa.

Even in a crowded courtyard that brings out far too many painful memories, even in a cold all the fires around them can’t quite fight, even in this life of agony and terror, this is nice. A blessed moment that feels almost otherworldly despite the materiality of his surroundings.  
Everything around is concrete, palpable, and almost harshly real.  
But what’s inside of him is a wholly different story. A softness he didn’t know could exist flows through his chest, and washes over his entire body, soothing wounds and fears.

He doesn’t know what to say, certainly could not express it if he did, but it doesn't matter. Even filled with petrifying implications as it is, the silent is pleasant. Everything is pleasant when Sansa is here.  
It feels as though his bones hurt less, his heart is warming over, and he is finally complete. Perhaps they are both too broken to ever be whole on their own again, but —together, they are complete.

He wants to believe this fantasy, for just a little longer.  
To keep the lie alive at least until he isn’t.

He realizes it isn’t possible, that even shattered, she is far too high above him, but tonight, it’s not a concern. All he wishes now is to enjoy the moment, for as long as it will agree to last, without worrying or even thinking about anything else.

Despite the impending doom, he feels safe. He even was going to try and find Sansa when she found him first and asked if he didn’t mind spending the time they had left before the battle with her.

As if he could mind.

He could barely believe she would suggest precisely what he yearned for.

He is still not convinced this is not an extremely realistic hallucination. It would certainly explain why, over the smell of fire and cold and the taste of the stew he is drinking more than eating, he can still perceive the sweet scent of her hair.

It’s not lemony as it was in another life, now rather coppery and wolfish, but it’s Sansa and needs no other reason to be perfect.

He would cross the world thrice just to stretch out this moment and remain next to Sansa forever. He isn’t even really looking at her, too embarrassed and well aware of how awkward it would be, but being in her presence is enough. Knowing how beautiful she is with her auburn hair and tender eyes, despite the exhaustion that corrodes them, is enough. And no matter how short this instant will turn out to be, it will be enough too.  
It’s already surpassing anything he could ever have imagined. Anything he deserves. He will be happy, even when it’ll inevitably end, because it will have happened, and nothing can tear that away from him.

Of course, it ends sooner than later, when, from the corner of his eye, he notices she is opening her mouth to speak. He expected it, and it doesn't come down as any surprise. He sees she has reached her limits now, and is unable to take it anymore.

The silence was comfortable, but not enough to shield them from the matter they cannot avoid, the imminent threat looming over them which, judging from the way her voice cracks, appears to terrify her more than anything. He can understand. Even after everything she has been through, it’s no wonder such an inevitable menace can scare her.

“Theon…”

_We may both be dead by dawn._

"You know you don't have to do it." She whispers rapidly, as though afraid that, should she talk too slowly, she wouldn't have time to convince him. _It is a possibility, after all. Who can tell when the dead will attack._

It takes a few instants for him to realize she isn’t at all saying what he had predicted, and his eyes widen right before he raises his head to stare at her. It takes him another few to grasp what she just murmured.

And once again, he can barely believe it.

There is only one matter she may be bringing up. She agreed to let him fight for her in this battle. What caused her to wince was his proposal to defend Bran in what would be no short of a suicide, in the most dangerous spot of the most dangerous battle humanity would fight.

They both know how perilous it is. But more importantly, they both know the peril is the reason he volunteered. He must protect Bran at all costs, and it’s what he wants.

“Of course I have to do it.” He answers with an unwavering determination that doesn’t seem to persuade her in the least.

“It’s too dangerous. You will die if you do.” She protests with just as much conviction, and pain in her voice that he can’t bear to hear. Hurting her is the last thing he wishes to do… _But what choice does he have?_

“It’s a war.” He lowers his gaze. How dare he correct Sansa? But he has to now, hasn’t he? “No matter where I stand, I will be putting my life on the line. And if I did nothing, it would only decrease our chances of surviving, not the opposite.”

“I'm not telling you to withdraw from the battle altogether, not even not to fight in the Godswood, but please, at least don’t go out there already defeated or certain that you are going to die and ready to accept it.”

He isn’t ready. He isn’t ready at all. He believed he’d be strong enough to suppress his will to survive, but it’s obvious he grossly overestimated himself. The truth is he wants to remain with her. It hurts to even breathe, everything is painful and he hates himself to the core, but he wants to live.

But what he wants doesn’t matter. It’s what he needs to do. Protecting Bran is his desire and doing so with his life is his duty, and it outweighs his aspiration to remain alive.

He isn’t ready. But he accepts it.

“Theon… If in a few hours, you realize staying would not help Bran but would kill you, flee. It would not be cowardice. It would be reason.”

“Why are you saying this?” He wonders aloud, his perplexity genuine, as is his wish to understand.

“Because if I don’t, you’ll sacrifice yourself for nothing and you know it!” She realizes she shrieked and immediately shuts her mouth tight, a hint of embarrassment having her bite her lip when someone turns around to look at them.

But the most surprised is Theon. Seeing Sansa actually losing control of herself has become a rare occurence, if not a unique one. It kind of stings to think it is without a doubt because he is so deeply associated with her past —and not the happy parts of it such as her childhood during which she barely knew he existed, but the darkest, most painful memories.

She takes a deep breath and releases it, forming a white puff that dissipates as she speaks again, this time in a much calmer and more composed manner. “I’m not blind, and neither am I a fool. I know you. Not as well as I would like to, but I do. And your behavior is not hard to read. We all understand Bran is going to be at the center of the battle, and we all realize protecting him will be the most hazardous responsibility. But I also get not one of us will be safe, so it would be ridiculous to tell you not to fight. I wouldn’t do this. Besides, you need to protect Bran. However… I believe what he is saying. Otherwise, this battle would not even happen. But it means the Night King will be after him, more than after anyone else. Which signifies if the situation were to become desperate, and you couldn’t save Bran… They will be primarily focused on him. Hence, you might have a chance to escape. I want you to take it.”

“You’re asking me not to protect your brother?” He breathes out, bewildered.

“Absolutely not.” She denies in an icy tone that strongly implies how furious she would be should he abandon Bran. He didn’t need the reminder. “As long as there will be a chance of him surviving, I want you to stay by his side.” She slowly exhales, as though trying to calm herself down, yet her voice still comes out oddly anguished. “What I’m asking you is not to die for a corpse.”

“I can't promise this. I vowed to protect him, whatever the cost. For as long as he will be alive, I won’t leave his side. I will not flee if it could doom him.” He feels his throat tightening when he pronounces his next words. “I will not betray another Stark.” _I will not cause the death of another human._

“Can’t you hear how irrational what you are saying is?”

“You’re asking me to behave as a coward.” He says aloud, eyes wide and lost, as though trying to confirm this is indeed happening.

“I’m asking you not to behave as a fool! Being a hero isn’t always about standing in the front line even when it's too late, sometimes it’s also about being brave enough to give up in order to live an other day to help more people!” She cries out, losing patience and her composure. “What I’m asking you is not to waste your life for nothing!”

“Don’t you believe in me?” No, probably not. In fact, he doesn't even think she should. He is terrible at choices and she is smarter than he ever will be. Yet, for once, her decision seems the insane one. But it can be understood. So close from such a decisive battle, she likely hasn’t been getting enough sleep, and has a thousand other matters to focus on.  
“Forgive me for this question… It is irrelevant. What I meant to say is that my life isn’t… It is not worth much. But if it could make a difference, buy lord Bran one more moment, one more chance to survive, then it could finally be of use, and have a great purpose. Trust me, I will do everything I can to stay alive. But as long as there’ll still be the slightest chance it could save Bran, I will keep on fighting!”

“No. I admire your valor, and yes, I believe in you, but I refuse to let you consider your life as worth little or nothing. You are so much more important than you think…”

At this, Theon hangs his head down in shame, but also to avoid facing Sansa as he discloses a truth he would much rather hide. She likely already guessed it anyway, but it doesn’t make confirming it any less difficult. “You can’t say this. You do not even know every misdeed I committed. How guilty I am for the harm brought upon you. Not the details, at least. You wouldn’t say that if you knew the entire truth…”

“Then tell me.” A quick, stolen glance at her reveals she is staring at him intently, not giving him much choice. “Tell me, Theon.” She seems conflicted between firm and pleading. He isn’t able to resist either.

“It’s about… Him. Ramsay.” He begins, only to pause immediately. When she doesn’t answer, he looks as up as he can, enough to vaguely see her shape and catch a glimpse of her nodding to prompt him to continue.

He lowers his gaze again, focusing on a pebble on the ground, with all of his might, doing everything not to be transported back to the scenes he can’t help but recall.

"He... I had his trust. Because he trusted, not me, but what he had made of me... He trusted Reek. That... That Reek wouldn't escape, wouldn't harm him, would be too scared to... And he was right. I've had him at my mercy, so many times, so many times… I had a razor blade an inch away from his throat! I could have killed him. I should have. But I didn’t.”

"You couldn't know."

"I couldn't know Ramsay Bolton would hurt more people?”

She visibly flinches, and he can tell she realized that she has no way to deny he is at fault. That there is no way to deny it. But Theon continues nevertheless, to further prove his point.

"No... Indeed, I couldn't know he would kill Rickon. I couldn't know he would hurt you, of all people. But it doesn't make me less of a coward. I knew he was dangerous and I knew he would cause harm as long as he would still be alive. But no matter how easy it would have been, I didn't put an end to it. To him. It makes me just as guilty as he is."

"If you dare to say something this foolish again, I won't hesitate to slap you."

The warning is firm and as serious as it is honest, and it comes out as such a surprise Theon's head jolts up and he can't help but stare at her with awe, searching her face for any sign that she is being sarcastic or telling a white lie. She takes advantage of it to grasp his head between her hands and maintain it in place, making sure he won't look away again.

"Listen to me. You are not that monster and deep inside, you know it. I've seen you back there, Theon. Don't think you can fool me, or yourself around me. You were scared. _Do as he says. It can always get worse._ Doesn't it sound familiar? You were scared to worsen your situation, and then to worsen both our situations, even when it would have made them better. You were scared that... That he knew everything, couldn't be killed, couldn't die. You were scared of it all and you had every reason to be. You don't have to be ashamed of it, or to feel guilty. Anyone would have reacted the same way."

Even when she lets him go, his gaze remains fixated on her. She is beautiful.

"Not you. You always remained strong. You always kept on fighting. Trying to escape, even when it was making it worse."

"Because we didn't have the same experience. They had a lot in common, but many differences too. And in a way, I was just as foolish. You might say... You might say it's my fault too. I put myself and us both in even more danger than we were more than once. But it isn't my fault, just as it is not yours. And I won’t let you keep blaming yourself for other people’s crimes.”

He gives a weak, worn-out smile. “Perhaps. But even so, I’ve committed enough by myself.”

“Have you not paid for them already?” She asks, voice raw and despaired. Time is flying and she is only too aware of it.

“How could I? I’ve not done half of what I should.”

“Even then, shouldn’t redemption be doing an amount of good superior or equal to the amount of harm you caused?”

“Maybe, but I am far from having done so.”

She shakes her head. “No… It is not what I meant, Theon. Shouldn’t redemption be doing good things, not sacrificing yourself? Everything you did until now was good. You didn’t stop, you always moved forward, even if you kept an eye on the past you, you have not remained imprisoned in it. You did your best to correct yourself, you fought so hard and you improved so much, you became such… A good person. You mustn't throw all this away. Don’t ruin your chances of making the world an even better place. It needs you.”

The thought anyone, anything might need him, him of all people, is as inane as it is warming. Too warm, too soft. It’s overwhelming. He isn’t sure whether it hurts or soothes him.

For a second, she looks as though she may add something, but is not so sure about saying it. He remains quiet, feeling that— whatever it is, it is worth the wait.

“I need you.” She confesses, perhaps because she trusts him that much, and surely because it could be the last night they spend together. The last night he spends in this world. “Don’t leave me alone, Theon.”

“You won’t be alone, even if I… You will have lady Brienne and Arya and Jon. They are good fighters, they’ll be sure to survive.” It is a lie and they both know it. The truth is they aren’t sure even _she_ or anyone at all will survive. It may not be the most vicious or the greatest, but this is the most powerful threat they have ever faced. “And I will do everything in my power for you to still have lord Bran.”

“That’s not what I’m asking for. This is different.” Her voice cracks once again, and her mouth contorts in the saddest smile he has ever seen. “The way I need you is different. I love all of them, but it’s not the same. If you left, they wouldn’t be able to fill the void. Can’t you see it?”

He can see it, he just can’t believe it.

She laughs in a humorless fashion that betrays how much she is losing control. “Why would I spend what could be the last night of my life with you if you weren’t special to me?”

Because everyone else is busy spending it with someone else? Not Bran… Because he is the most likely to die? They are all so likely to do so it would hardly matter. To thank him then? He should be the one grateful. He wouldn’t be here without her, or maybe he would, but six feet under.

Even if “here” is the most dangerous place in the world, he is glad to find himself there.  
Because he’s face to face with her.

And there’s no other option. He can think of a thousand reasons why other than the most obvious one, none valid.

“I understand.” He confesses, unable to further deny the far too glorious for his poor heart, self-evident truth. “Because I feel the same.”  
He admits since it may be his last chance to do so, but most of all because he cannot refrain from doing so after she made such an implicit yet powerful declaration.  
And she smiles.  
The beauty of it and its meaning both overwhelm him entirely, and he is close to unable to breathe. He knows she is only acting this way because she knows she will lose him soon and it causes her feelings to seem stronger than they are, but he’ll gladly believe the lie. It takes him a good moment to calm down and come back to his senses.

For a second, he even thinks about kissing her. How soft it would all be… But it would only hurt more afterward. The both of them. Instead, he betrays himself, and forces his mouth to utter words he would much rather not pronounce, words of destruction and agony.

“But protecting Lord Bran is my duty. And, for his sake, mine and yours, I will do it.”

“No.” She breaks down entirely, and he understands. In spite of everything that differs between them, and how much better than him she is, and everyone is, really, Theon still has one irreplaceable thing. He is the only one who gets, even a little, everything she has been through, and how scarred and broken she is, no matter how much she hides it. He regrets a little not having been there for her for all the time since they last saw each other. She has been doing so well on her own, but how exhausting it must have been. And now… Now, she is hiccuping and quivering, and he can’t stand seeing her like that. “No… You can’t be like this, don’t say this, don’t do this. Please, Theon, don't die. Don't die..."  
She whispers this with the weakest voice he has heard in a long time, far from the woman of steel she usually impersonates _–him she trusts enough not to hide her wounds, only him, and if he wasn't there anymore, if she had to lose him, she doesn't... She doesn't know what she would do..._ "If you die so soon..." Her feeble tone suddenly turns firmer, harsher even, becoming one of reproach and anger. "I won't forgive you."

Anyone else would stop at the selfishness of this request, or at the sheer insanity of such an order being given hours away from a battle, or at the acrimony of it all. But Theon, only Theon, sees right through it and, without so much as an effort or even the realization he is gazing at what nobody else can perceive, he stares straight at Sansa's soul. And as he takes in the abyss of despair her sourness covered, that he can't make out the bottom of, he almost wishes he could look away.

But he would never do. Because Sansa needs and deserves to have that pit filled with nothing but happiness and love, the despondency replaced by soft hope, and her sad smile changed to a bright one. But no one gets this. She doesn't let them.

No one understands she is alone in the middle of the ocean. Just because she can swim, no one notices she is drowning. It's not about whether she can protect herself or not, but whether she can save herself. She may be alive for now, because she is strong, much stronger than anyone could guess, but she is struggling. And surely one day, if nobody lends her a helping hand, she will run out of strength and either freeze, starve or sink deep, deep down, at the bottom of the ocean.

Perhaps she will find a shore before that happens, perhaps she will indeed get herself out of the water, perhaps all will be well in the end, but the odds are against her. Chances are she will suffocate.

And Theon won't let that happen. Not now, and not ever. And he may not be able to do much, not have half of what it takes, be drowning himself, but he'll be damned if he doesn't at least try. And if he doesn't make it, then... Perhaps they will be submerged together.

The thought, awful as it is, is oddly soothing. He refuses to let Sansa wither once more, and he would not support losing his mind again, but for some reason, the mere thought of not being alone in an ordeal is enough to comfort him.

Besides, despite how far gone they both are, how deprived of energy they grew to be, and how strenuous the task is, he feels they can save each other.

After all, they already did once. And it took everything they had and more, but they succeeded. So if that's what it takes, he is ready. 

And in spite of all of this, it doesn't change that he doesn't know what to say. He has to protect Bran, that is the least he can do, and even if he doesn't willingly sacrifice his life for him... He will still be fighting in a real battle, where death will be everywhere. He can promise her to remain alive no more than he can promise anyone else will be alright. And even if he could, it would not be fair. His life is not in his hands anymore.

Although, it _is_ partly in hers...

But partly in Bran's. Something cold seems to drop in his stomach. He feels that he has gotten better at making the right decisions lately, but his history of terrible choices with awful consequences and the far too many scars left because of them are a painful reminder that he has all the reasons in the world to be afraid. Once more, he finds himself facing a hellish quandary, having to choose between bad and worse, with no idea which will be the least devastating.

And hence, despite the horror it implies, even though it will undoubtedly hurt Sansa, he doesn't answer. He doesn't know much, but he can at least tell making false promises is the last thing he should do. If he gets her hopes up, even a little, it will only be harder on her if they crash down afterward. But most of all –he doesn't want to betray anyone. Not anymore.

But he will have to.

He bites the inside of his cheek to chase the thought away, and it's even more painful to realize it makes his teeth hurt instead of his cheek. But he doesn't allow himself to dwell on it. He has already harped on his problems, and more than enough. What he must do is find a way to comfort Sansa. But even when focusing solely on it, he cannot come up with anything. So, instead, he takes her hand in his least mangled one.

For an instant, she looks at him with the eyes of a martyr, but rapidly averts her gaze to focus on their entwined fingers. She doesn't protest. He isn't sure whether it is because she doesn't have anything else to say that could convince him, or because she trusts he will make the right choice, no matter which it is. Both are as agonizing as they are soothing.

He rubs the back of her hand with his thumb, making circular motions, and hopes she doesn't feel too distraught.

He can't help but notice how, in spite of everything, her hands are soft and smooth as they should be. It makes him somewhat self-conscious about his own calloused, deformed hands and the scars on them that make it no short of a miracle –helped by quite a lot of training– that he can still use a bow. Even shattered, she is perfect.

He doesn’t want to lose her. Regardless of how nonsensical it is, he loves her, and everything about her, from her courage to her intelligence to her clear eyes to the scars on her heart and to the ghosts of all the tears she ever cried. He’d love her flaws if he could find any. He would love to wake up every morning next to her, support her on her journey to mend herself, and make sure she always gets everything she deserves, anything that can make her the slightest bit happy.

Of course, it’s absurd. He is well aware that it could never happen, and if it stings and causes his chest to burn, it doesn't change anything.

“You will make it. I know it.” She murmurs, and they both know it’s a lie. “But even if no one else does…” She sniffs, heaving a shaky breath. “It’ll be alright. The dead can’t swim, right? We’ll go to the Iron Islands, go to your sister… And we’ll create a new army to fight them there, or no, we won’t, it would be useless anyway… We’ll just stay on Pyke, and live there in peace, without thinking about the rest of the world…”

Her gaze appears empty, or rather focused on a spot she doesn’t seem to see. He wonders if he should embrace her. Not because he wants to touch her, which he does, but that is besides the point, but to comfort her. He realizes he shouldn’t be taking advantage of her current vulnerability like this, but he is only a man, or less than that.

He scoots a little closer to her and wraps his arms around her, bringing her against his chest. He makes a desperate attempt not to smell her hair and fails within the second. It isn’t as though he wasn't already doing it anyway. It doesn’t take him much more time to give up and lower his defenses, just letting himself enjoy the moment, Sansa’s presence, her warmth against his body. She smiles sadly, something he would like to return with a reassuring joy, but can only meet with the same kind of happy but pained expression.

He thinks about what she said, these unrealistic plans to go to Pyke and spend the rest of their days here. How perfect it would be if they became true. If they could be together forever. If she really loved him.

Just imagining it and comparing it to the forlorn truth feels like an arrow in his heart, but when people start moving and he sees his fellow Ironborn soldiers approaching —it feels like a thousand. He must go now. Too soon. For too much.

When he tenses up, Sansa appears to notice and follows his gaze, only to nod in sorrow.

“I have to leave.” He says under his breath, not wanting Sansa to hear exactly how pained he is.

“I know. Then… This is good bye. But not a farewell. I will… We will see each other again, as soon as the battle will end. I’ll wait for you.” She says as she gets up, letting him free to do the same, and he follows suit.

“Thank you. For everything.”

“I should be the one saying this. Thank you so much, for all you did and are doing. Thank you, Theon.” She takes his hand in hers and a step towards him. “For good luck.”

Before he can ask what she means, her lips are on his. Not any farther, not any deeper. It is as pure as it is simple, really more of a peck than a true kiss.

It is the best sensation he has ever felt.

And now, it’s all over.

As dozens of White Walkers invade the Godswood, as the Night King himself makes his entrance, as Theon’s entire life crumbles around him, he knows he won’t leave the sacred place alive.

And then, it strikes him. Or will it?

His dilemma has one aspect he hasn’t explored.

It is only through saving Sansa that he can save himself. It has been true before, in more ways than one. Not only in a redeeming sense, but in a much more tangible way. If it hadn't been for her, there was no doubt he would still be suffering, be helpless, be Reek. Ramsay would have won. And the world would have been a much, much darker place.

If he has one hero, it is Sansa. If he has one hope, it is Sansa. And if there is one person he wants to save... It is Sansa.

He glances at Bran for a split second, enough to make sure he is back, and to realize he is smiling an odd sort of smile that says he knows. Of course he does. He knows everything. That's even why they're here in the first place, and now he knows Theon is hesitating to protect him, and worse, he knows Theon has made up his mind, and chose giving his life to Sansa over giving his life for him. It is ridiculous and selfish and he is aware of it, but to him, Sansa matters more, more than the memory of the entire humanity, more than all of history. Because Bran may hold it, but Sansa made it. And she deserves respite for it.

It's stupid, really. If Bran dies, if another of her siblings dies, if it happens even though it could have been avoided, Sansa will be destroyed. But it's not about saving Bran anymore. He is dead already, there is nothing that could save him right in this instant, they are face to face with death and staring at it in the eyes. It stopped being about saving Bran the moment the dead outnumbered the living ten-fold even in the Godswood.

Now, it is about whether Theon will sacrifice his life to a lost cause, just to try to find a redemption that only seems to hurt more than guilt, or give up his honor but preserve his life to protect a woman he reveres. It feels like he is back on the sea with Yara in front of him and Euron restraining her. He already made that choice and he is making it again. It doesn't matter that the entire world will think of him as a coward.

He jumps.

In a single second, all these thoughts run through his head, and he makes his decision. Perhaps because they have been there all along. Perhaps because his decision was already made.

He takes a few steps back, until he is standing right beside Bran. It's not an easy choice, but, as a single tear rolls down his cheek, he lets out a whisper.

"I'm so so–"  
"Theon... You're a good man" Bran interrupts before Theon can choke out an apology, and nods, his all-knowing smile still on display. “Thank you.” He can barely believe that he is not misunderstanding. Bran can't possibly be forgiving him not only for attempting to kill him, but also for not trying to pay for it and the actual murders with his own life... No matter how useless it may be. He hesitates again, to which Bran answers. "Stand back, now. You have done enough for me."

It seems insane and Theon doesn't believe it but his heart does, and he obeys. He glances at the Night King, who seems quite amused by the situation, probably so certain of his victory he doesn't mind waiting for its end a little, and just as surely savoring it as he does. Then he gazes at Bran one last time, before murmuring "Thank you" and walking away. Too spent to run, and keeping his last remnants of energy in case he has to dash.

He can hear footsteps in the snow, without a doubt the Night King's, advancing towards Bran. His heart tightens in his chest at the thought he will never see Bran again, and he feels guilty once more, this time not since he doesn't protect him but since he can't.

When the footsteps come to a halt at last, Theon can't help but notice how quiet the Godswood is at this very instant. Of course, flames all around him crackle, swords and spears clang, screams and shouts from the different battlefields surrounding their own resound, but it is so much quieter than before. As though the rest of the world was fighting while they were in a bubble amidst it all that muffled their efforts.

Perhaps it is simply because, for once, his mind grew silent. No unwelcome thoughts spiral in his head, no demons' shrieks tear him apart, no internal cries disrupt him. He feels... At peace. In the middle of a war he already lost and gave up on, as he just sealed his fate as a despised coward assuming he still has a fate, while he is not even sure that he or Sansa will survive much longer, he feels at peace. It makes no sense. It makes all the sense in the world.

And then, a scream breaks the silence.

No, not a scream. _A battlecry._

Theon instinctly volte faces only to discover the Night King right in front of Bran, but turning his back to him as he is at hands with— Arya. Theon is not even surprised to see she decided to come here, but for a second, he feels a great mix of relief over having backup even in the shape of a single person, and worry as he catches she is at the Night King’s mercy… Yet the next second, as the greatest threat of all is reduced to dust, so is all his fear. Theon’s heart skips a beat. Is this happening? Even when he sees the army of the dead burst into tiny shards of ice, he can’t quite process what just happened. Did they win? Is it… Over?

He dashes.

No one or nothing could stop him now. Even if it is a dream, even if he died without realizing it, it doesn't matter. He is as happy as can be and he is going to see Sansa, and that's all that counts.

When he arrives at the crypt’s entrance, it is still closed. He doesn’t want to scare anyone inside, and thus speaks instead of knocking. “Is everything alright?” He asks, just tinily terrified that Sansa may not be fine. It would be absurd, that he would stay alive and even Bran would survive and not her, but luck never seems to be on his side.

All the more reason why, when he hears the voice he wants to listen to for the rest of his life, his heart almost bursts with joy.

“Theon?”

“Yes, it’s me!”

Just knowing she is alive causes one of the most intense waves of relief he has ever felt to wash over him. He had forgotten he could even feel such delight, such euphoria —such happiness. Nothing is of consequence but Sansa being safe, and it is the only thing on his mind.

He can pick up quick footsteps running up the stairs.

He doesn’t even think about how awkward situations involving them both will be in the future, when everything will have settled down and that Sansa will realize how she behaved towards him, how he let her do so and how disgusting he is. Right now, he is celebrating a victory. And maybe he is not a hero, maybe he is once more naught but a pathetic coward, but he doesn’t care.

Because, as the crypt’s heavy door blasts open, he gets to see a smile on Sansa’s face, the brightest and most honest he has ever caught on her.

And when she throws her arm around his neck and kisses him, hungrily pressing her hot mouth against his and slipping her tongue inside for it to in turn intertwine with his, gently caress his teeth, and lick his palate in a far more ravenous manner than he could have pictured Sansa needing to act, when his every desire comes true, he loses himself in bliss and Sansa without a second thought.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so dissatisfied with this but I put my best into it and I have no idea what's wrong with it and I can't do any better so here it is. Well, I have no idea what's wrong with it other than the fact I never cut to the chase and get straight to the point. But it feels like I'm missing so much when I cut off parts... And even now it feels so rushed!!! All the other people put so much meaning in super short sentences, and I don't know how to do that. Like. How's that possible??? How do you do that, everyone?? I need answers and perhaps help. And vocabulary. So much vocabulary.  
> I may add a "bonus" chapter because I've been working on one, but I definitely won't have time to finish it before the end of the Secret Santa event so I chose to post that first. If I do add a bonus, the ratings will most likely change.  
> Merry Christmas and happy holidays!


End file.
